sends me a dream on my first day of vacation. In the dream I have a dog who fakes his own death on YouTube: ketchup packets, strangely placed sheets, a knife with a trick blade. It’s terribly gauche––but tragically, the masses are taken in. I became famous for the spectacle of animal suicide. At first it’s devastating to be spat on at the liquor store but soon I accept the weird hype. I start making the talk show rounds. Of course I try telling them: Ichabod is alive! I just gave him a treat! They all laugh like two hundred laugh tracks turned up at once. They point in my direction, nod rabidly toward one another, slap their knees. I get doxxed and decide to move back to my old neighborhood, where we lived when Ichabod was a puppy. Still, most days someone eggs my car in the restaurant parking lot, or mail forwarding delivers escalating litigation from PETA. My mom insists I call her on my way to and from work after the third time someone gets out at a red light to pound on my window. I’m recording, asshole! she screeches through the car stereo now, and the police are on their way! At night, when I get home from serving pub grub to Joe Rogan fan clubs, I meet Ichabod across the gulch behind my apartment. He’s a stout golden retriever with a graying muzzle and hip dysplasia. He wears a turquoise collar, and is both wiser and crueler than me. When I ask him why, he just says life is more fun when no one expects you to show up for things. He doesn’t even have the grace to look ashamed––which, coming from a golden, is a real feat. I say: Tell me about it. I’m supposed to be on vacation. The god of my small intestine rumbles through my sleep, What did you eat? It’s become impossible to remember anything besides the ticking view count on Ichabod’s death scene. Cheerios, I mumble. I sleep with a bat under my bed. The weirdos find me again, and I wake to dead animals on my porch. I buy a ring camera but the police just shrug when they come to take reports. Mapo tofu. Orange Creamsicle. Loneliness distends around me like a dirigible. What else, asks the little god. Cassoulet Toulouse! My boss lets me go right before Christmas––too many hijinks during my shifts. Reuben, side of fries… I dipped them in Ichabod’s lifeblood, I quip, but my tiny god’s not amused. That night, I pile all my belongings in the gully and set them on fire. I teeter on the bank, waiting for the flames to get higher. Ichabod lights a cigarette and turns into the sky. I exit the dream wrapped in my sheets, yelling: huckleberry pie! The sun is out. I can smell something frying.